


The Adventure Of The Happy Neighbours (1904)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [217]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Bets & Wagers, Butt Plugs, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mushrooms, Sussex, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Family sometimes does end in blood - and some blue-eyed bastard of a detective is cruelly and maliciously deceiving to his soon to be ex-friend, as Sherlock solves a case where someone stops behaving badly.





	The Adventure Of The Happy Neighbours (1904)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> 'Ærolite' was the term for what we now call a meteorite, a rocky fragment that has survived its passage through the Earth's atmosphere.

Sherlock and I did not usually mark Valentine's Day with gifts – well, except for the obvious, of course! – so I expected our last one in Baker Street to pass uneventfully. Unfortunately it did not.

I had gone out for a walk that day, Sherlock having had to go and visit his family (poor fellow!), and had returned expecting to find him in the inevitable foul mood that he so often was after such encounters. I may or may not have been looking forward to him working off his anger on me, but that was beside the point.

Yes it was!

Instead of anger, however, I found my friend strangely thoughtful.

“What has happened?” I asked anxiously. This was a novel sort of reaction to a parental visit, and I did not like the unexpected, not with our personal heaven so close now.

“Mycroft has done an interview for a society magazine called _“Tatler”_ ”, he said, frowning.

There had to be more to it than that, I thought.

“And?” I pressed.

“He has said that, and I quote, 'it is not only the Wildes who have to deal with 'somdomites' in their midst'”, he said. “Although he did not name me or you, the fact that he approvingly mentioned every other sibling he has makes his meaning painfully clear.”

I winced. I did not wish to leave London on a sour note, nor to have my friend's reputation marred in that way. The Edwardian attitude towards homosexuality was much the same as the Victorian one; fine, provided that everyone can pretend not to know about it. Mr. Mycroft Holmes broadcasting his accusations across London on some society rag could damage us greatly.

“What can we do?” I asked.

“Fortunately the matter is in hand”, he said. “Father contacted me, I went to the inimitable Miss Bradbury – I see that she and Gilda have moved in together now, which is good – and she is using her not inconsiderable talents to quietly recall all the copies of the dratted rag. If we tried to pull them openly, there would of course be a rush on the things. And she is 'having a word' with the magazine publishers.”

He was right about human nature, I thought bitterly. There was nothing more likely to make people want to read something by denying them the chance so to do.

“So you went to talk to your father about this, then?” I asked, relaxing a little. He shook his head.

“No, I went to see Mother”, he said. “She had to have a couple of stitches in her hand.”

“What for?” I asked. “Has she been injured?”

“Not exactly”, he grinned. “From when she hit Mycroft. He will be in hospital for the next two weeks, which hopefully will give him plenty of time to learn to think before he acts in future. And next time, to remember to run before the second blow, as Mother can swing her walking-stick upwards with considerable force!”

I chuckled.

“By the way”, he said, “I have a case coming up shortly on the sea-front at Marseilles. Would you be able to accompany me?”

I was surprised that he was going abroad at this late stage in his career, but of course I agreed. I would do anything for my man.

+~+~+

I was not pouting. I was not!

“I love it when you pout!” teased my soon to be ex-friend.

The reason for my annoyance was, once more, that a certain consulting detective, one who was not getting laid (and that included doing any laying) in the foreseeable future, had lied to me. Well, not exactly lied, but certainly been more than a little economical with the truth. When he had asked me how I had felt about a visit to Marseilles, I had pictured a lovely summer break in the south of France, Sherlock in a swimming costume, sandy beaches, Sherlock in a swimming costume, fine wines, Sherlock in a swimming costume, good food, Sherlock out of a swimming costume.....

No, I did not have a one-track mind. Shut up!

And now, instead of the sultry warmth of the Mediterranean coast, we had just alighted from a cab outside the bed and breakfast establishment of our former landlady and her husband in bloody Eastbourne, with a wind that felt like it was blowing straight in from the icy Arctic! This was not the South of France!

“This is not the south of France!” I said testily. He chuckled. 

“I believe that I promise you a case in Marseilles?” he reminded me.

“You did”, I said, shivering. “And?”

He pointed to the house next door to _“The Roadhouse”_. This too was a bed and breakfast establishment, and went by the name of...

“ _'Marseilles_ '!” I groaned. “You are one mean consulting detective!”

“Never mind”, he growled. “I am sure that I can.... make it up to you!”

And how the blazes could I get an erection in this wind?

+~+~+

Bobby and Ellen greeted us warmly, and showed us to our room. I did not blush when she pointedly remarked that whilst there was only one bed, she had other guests who might enjoy some peace and quiet. 

I did not blush much. Besides, Sherlock did too.

“Why the unusual name?” I asked over a delicious dinner. “It sounds more American than English.”

“Place I knew out west”, Bobby said gruffly. “Served food almost as good as Ellen's here.”

His wife blushed.

“Has Jo been taking good care of you?” she asked.

“Very”, Sherlock said. “I shall miss Baker Street, although of course the consolation will be that we shall not be far from here, so we shall doubtless see them when they visit.”

“That boy needs to get his damn finger out”, Bobby said grumpily. “We are not getting any younger, and we want grandchildren!”

I forbore from commenting on a large number of certain injuries that I regularly treated Mr. Lindberg for, which suggested that the lack of children was not through any lack of trying of someone's part. Thank the lord that we and the Lindbergs had an unwritten agreement on Not Sharing certain things!

“It is all part of life”, Sherlock agreed. “So, why did you need us here?”

All these years, and the inclusion of me in that 'us' still made me feel all warm inside.

“It is our neighbour, Mrs. Start at “Marseilles”, Ellen said. “Her guests have been acting very strangely of late, ever since that awful Miss Johnson arrived.”

“Tell me everything”, Sherlock said, before drinking his coffee down in a single draught.

“I still do not know how you can do that”, Ellen sighed. “About a month back, Miss Carolyn Johnson took a room next door. She is working at some archaeological dig up in Hailsham, Lord alone knows what for.”

“Ærolites”, Sherlock said at once. We all looked at him.

“Pardon?” Ellen said.

“I read about it last month”, he explained. “Someone found evidence that a large ærolite had struck just outside the town, probably long before humans lived here, and they found it unusual because the metals in it were not what they expected.” He smiled when he saw our surprised faces. “I maintain an interest in all areas except the social pages, which it what I keep John around for.”

It was damnably unfair of our former landlady and her husband to laugh at that. However true it was.

“Anyway”, Ellen continued, “I thought it odd at first that she would not room with her fellow diggers, as I know they have some sort of hostel place up there, but believe you me, it did not take me long to figure out why. Most likely because they would have felt the urge to bury _her_ , rather than dig around in space dust!”

“The woman was awful!” Bobby agreed. “First week, she argued over everything, and her voice carried right through the dividing wall, it was so damn shrill.”

“Has something happened to her?” I asked. Our friends looked at each other.

“We are not sure”, Ellen said. “You see, that was what was so weird. She seemed to calm down after about a week, and last week – well, I did not like to say it, but I actually thought she was drunk!”

“Women do drink”, Sherlock said mildly. I remembered our former landlady's rifle, and wisely said nothing.

“Not this woman!” Bobby said fervently. “She was so High Church, I suspected her of angling to become the next Archbishop of bloody Canterbury! And one of her favourite high horses was the evil of the demon drink.”

“So it is her behaviour that is causing you concern?” Sherlock asked.

“Not just her”, Ellen said. “Mrs. Start has four guests at the moment, and they are all acting just as weird as that dreadful woman, though the odd thing is, not all the time. Although last week, poor Mr. Speight fell off the pier!”

I looked up in surprise.

“Fell off?” I asked. “How did he manage that?”

“Lord alone knows”, Bobby said. “Constable Sunderland told me that the man wasn't drunk – and with the people in this town, he would know! - and it was sheer good luck that he fell off this end into one of those beach-tent thingies. Injured, but he'll survive. The strange thing was, the constable said that he had most of the symptoms of being drunk except for his breath, which was clear. Kirk has to deal with more than enough of those sort with all the pubs round here.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, then smiled. 

“It seems obvious enough”, he said, to the evident surprise of all of us. “I am to assume that Mrs. Start is a person of small build, as is the accident-prone Mr. Speight?”

“Yes”, Ellen said. “How did you know that?”

“And Miss Johnson is large lady?”

“She is no lady”, Bobby grunted, “but yes. Would probably get a place in a rugby team if she wanted.”

I sniggered at the image.

“And none of your own guests have been behaving at all strangely?” Sherlock asked. Ellen shook her head.

“Nor those at Mrs. Briggs' place, _“Pleasantview”_ , three doors down”, she said. “I wondered if it was something in the water, so I asked her, but no.”

“This 'dig' that Miss Johnson is on”, Sherlock said. “I do not suppose that either of you happen to know when it is concluding?”

“I do”, Bobby said. “They only found it because they were building some new houses on the edge of Hailsham. The developer fellow – very fairly, in my opinion – gave them six weeks in which he could work round them, then they would have to go. So they've got two weeks left.”

A thought occurred to me.

“How did Miss Johnson happen to get involved?” I asked. “She could not have crossed the Atlantic in so short a time, surely?”

“She is studying at a university in London”, Ellen explained, “and has an English friend who, very unfortunately for us all, alerted her to what was going on. I am sure her fellow scientists were _so_ grateful!”

I smiled at the obvious insincerity in her tone. 

“Do you really know what has happened here?” I asked Sherlock.

“I know the fundamentals”, he said. “All that really needs clearing up is whether the actions involved were deliberate, accidental, or a mixture of the two.”

“How could anyone accidentally make people act like they were drunk?” I asked.

“We shall go to see Mrs. Start, and find out”, he said with a smile.

+~+~+

Mrs. Susan Start was an elderly and, as Sherlock had said, a very small woman in her seventies. And to save anyone asking, yes she did simper at someone, and no, it was not me. That was one thing that I would _not_ miss when we were retired!

The landlady was initially disappointed that we were not seeking rooms, so Sherlock cut straight to the point.

“I am investigating a possible crime”, he said. “A poisoning.”

I looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. Fortunately the landlady was too alarmed by his words to notice.

“I can assure you that no-one has been poisoned here”, she said. “I keep a Most Respectable House.”

I could hear the capitals. Sherlock sat back and smiled.

“Let me tell you a little story, Mrs. Start”, he said. “It concerns a landlady who, to her grave misfortune, acquires a most _irksome_ tenant. This tenant is a large, formidable and loud woman, who is very fond of her own opinions and believes that everyone should have the 'benefit', as she sees it, of receiving them. Loudly, clearly and repeatedly, whether they want to hear them or not.”

The landlady winced.

“However, shortly after her arrival, the landlady in question makes a most fortuitous mistake”, Sherlock went on. “An error in a grocery delivery leaves her short of mushrooms and, being unable to order any more and needing some for the next day's breakfasts, she takes a walk in the charming woods behind her home and picks some wild mushrooms that grow there.”

I looked out of the nearby window to the green sward beyond, and suppressed a smile. I could see where this story was going, now.

“The landlady, ever eager to save a penny here and a ha'penny there, picks many mushrooms”, Sherlock said, “and uses her supply over the next few days. Almost immediately, she notices a change in all her guests, and most notably in the loudest and most unpleasant of them. Being someone of _considerable_ intelligence, the landlady quickly puts two and two together and realizes that one of the properties of the mushrooms that she has picked must be to bring about a calm tranquillity amongst those who eat them.”

Mrs. Start had gone bright red at this point.

“This, of course, places the landlady in a somewhat difficult position”, Sherlock went on. “She does not wish to poison her guests, but... well, the peace and quiet is so very welcome. And she knows, because of course she has asked, that her formerly loud guest will be gone in a few weeks anyway. Doubtless she ensures that only the woman in question receives the new mushrooms most of the time, with one or two going to the other guests occasionally.”

“Unfortunately, one of her guests, a Mr. Speight, 'slips his leash' and takes advantage of Miss Johnson leaving some mushrooms behind on her plate one morning. He is a small man – that was how I knew that, Watson – and his size makes him more susceptible that most. He is saved by a fortunately-placed beach-tent, and his landlady is subsequently more careful. So once more, all marches well – until her neighbour turns out to know a particular consulting detective who comes down for a holiday, and finds out everything.”

“I shall stop at once”, she promised.

“I do not think that that would be wise”, I said, to her evident surprise. “You see, you have introduced these things to her body, and to suddenly remove them might cause all sorts of complications. You said that she is to leave in two weeks' time?”

She nodded, looking fearfully at us both.

“Then I suggest that you slowly reduce the dose to zero over that time, by mixing in more and more normal mushrooms”, I said, silently thinking that I was somewhat stretching my maxim of 'first do no harm'. Then again, a sudden withdrawal could indeed be more dangerous, and I was sure that Ellen and Bobby would thank me for the continued peace and quiet. “That way, her body will be able to effectively adapt to the lacy of suppressant, and there should still be enough in her system to ensure, er.....”

“That she does not return to being her normal, terrible self?” Sherlock suggested. We all laughed.

+~+~+

Bobby and Ellen had gone out for a drive, so we took a walk along the sea-front before returning to “The Roadhouse” and telling them all. I looked north to where the downs began, and sighed. Somewhere out there was a beautiful cottage just for us, and we were so close.

“I do not see the point of these beach-houses”, I complained as we walked past the gaily-coloured doors. “There does not seem to be enough room inside to swing a cat.”

“I am not sure as to why even someone with your dislike of felines would wish to do that”, Sherlock said dryly. “So you are against such edifices?”

“I suppose so”, I said. “They seem pointless, really.”

He stopped by a red-doored beach-house and smiled strangely, producing a key from his pocket.

“So if I suggested sex in one of these, you would be against the idea?” he said slyly.

I was suddenly having difficulty breathing, as he coolly unlocked the thing and walked in. Inside there was indeed barely room to lie down, and we knocked against each other as we tried to get undressed....

Ye Gods, he was not wearing any underwear! That was just unfair! I was going to die before I had my cottage!

“No you are not, John”, he said, showing that freaky and not at all endearing mind-reading ability of his. “Get a move on, old man!”

I scowled and hurried out of the rest of my clothes, not helped by his working my erection as I did so. He was already up on the small bench that was the only furniture in this place, and clearly ready to impale himself on me.

“You need to be worked open”, I grumbled, cross at the delay. He smirked.

“Plug”, he said, pointing downwards. Seriously, I was going to lose it! 

“You interviewed that damn landlady in no underwear, and with a plug in you?” I marvelled. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are a pervert!”

“Says the man who is about to take me in an Eastbourne beach-house!” he replied cheekily. “Ready?”

I nodded, and helped him remove the plug before easing him down onto me. At fifty-two years of age I was not as fit as I once had been, but slotting inside the man I love gave me an energy I did not know that I had, especially when he began to work himself up and down me, making me moan in delight. 

“I love you!” he said fiercely. “And in six months' time, we shall be in our own little country retreat where we can have sex all day and every day!”

That was it. I came violently, moaning my release to the four close walls, and he followed me barely a second later, painting my chest with his spend. It was heaven.

+~+~+

The look we got from both Bobby and Ellen when we got back was somewhat less enjoyable.

“You two just could not wait?” he grumbled, handing a coin over to his wife. “I backed tonight, damnation!”

“Easiest five bob I ever made!” Ellen grinned, pocketing her winnings.

Whatever. I was too happy to care.

Six months to go.

+~+~+

In our penultimate adventure from Baker Street, a father frets that his son is being that bit too successful, and selling his body to raise money. He is right – sort of.


End file.
